


Running Round Leaving Scars

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Aliens (1986)
Genre: Androids, Engineering, Gen, Gore, Headcanon, I mean artificial people, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: “There are three stages to a repair. One, any internal damage or part replacement. Two, seal the skin: stitches, staples, glue, laser or patch. Three, melt and blend the edges so the seam disappears, and recolour if necessary.”(or, what happens in the medical bay if you're an artificial human)(or, I have far far too many headcanons about 'combat' synthetics and sometimes they turn into fic)





	1. Chapter 1

“So, ah - you guys don’t feel pain, do you?”

It would be an awkward question at the best of times, but to add to that Hudson yells it over the noise of the storm, a couple of minutes after the incident, with a general gesture at their colleague’s body. The silence would be even more awkward, were it not filled with the wind howling around their cover and the steady rasping of the saw passing through metal.

“No, I don’t.” Bishop doesn’t pause in his work, even for a second. “But I can’t say it’s comfortable.”

“Uh-huh,” Hudson replies, shifting his grip on his weapon. The end of the scaffold pole comes free with a clang.

“That’s done it.” The synthetic tucks the saw away and wrenches his leg free.

“You ok?” Hudson asks, and turns to look, and wishes he hadn’t. Combat injuries are one thing, but at least there’s usually a decent amount of blood and screaming to distract from the appearance of the wound. The sound that comes out of his mouth is not something that he’s proud of.

\--

“Did you think about pulling it straight out?” Another awkward question, this time from Hicks. He watches, fascinated and only slightly disturbed, as his artificial comrade shoves a drain line into his own thigh, just above the knee. White fluid, stained with flecks of rust and dirt, begins to drip into a container on the floor.

“I can’t. It’s through a big hydraulic line. If I took it out then and there, I would’ve bled out in about five minutes.”

“And you didn’t want Hudson to have to see that?”

The slight twitch of a smile that appears when he’s not quite sure how to react.

“I don’t think he’d want to.”

Hicks can’t help but smirk at that. Hudson is hardly what one would call a sensitive soul - but he attaches to his squad-mates, and he’s always the first to worry when they get hurt. Or damaged.

Looking at the section of scaffold impaling Bishop’s leg, Hicks thinks ‘hurt’ is the better adjective.

“I’ve shut down the feed line. What’s in there is contaminated anyway. But I won’t lose any more.” He grabs the end of the pipe and  _ shifts  _ it, and Hicks’s stomach lurches a little. “There.”

The offending piece of architecture slides out, covered in white and leaving a gaping mess of tubes and wires. Bishop tosses it aside and begins to clean out the wound, methodically washing away excess fluid and poking the protruding components.

“The bone is still fine,” he says, and points to it - a smooth column of carbon-fibre, just visible in one side of the hole. Hicks nods and his gaze tracks up from the tangle of artificial muscle and sinew, to the rude interruption of the otherwise human-looking skin, and the perfectly normal hand hovering above it.

“Can you feel that?” Hicks asks. His own extremities have gone slightly numb.

“Most of it. Not the hole, obviously. But the parts around it are reporting damage.”

“Damage? As in pain?”

“No. It’s more like… when your nerve endings are misfiring and you can’t use a part properly. Usually hands or feet.”

“You mean pins and needles?”

“Is that what you call it? The descriptions match.”

“Pins and needles.” Hicks looks back down, at the seeping ragged two-inch diameter of the wound. “Ok.”

“Most of these I can connect back up… some of them are missing sections. I’ll need a new lot of muscle - it’s a liquid polymer that sets into place - and then a skin patch. It’s not too bad.”

“Not too bad,” Hicks echoes his words again. “Right.”

\--

“You’ve got scars.”

He finishes dressing before turning to Hicks; from anyone else this would be insubordination, but the corporal can wait.

“I do.”

“No, I mean - I just thought about it. You have scars.”

Several, in fact. A new one where that pipe impaled his thigh. One in the junction of his right shoulder, bearing a resemblance to a bullet-wound. A faint pair on the left side of his neck; the first right up against the jawline and the second along the base. A line where a new foot must have been attached, not prominent but still visible. A slash across one hip.

A medic once told Hicks that scars were the result of human tissue trying to heal too quickly: ‘like, imagine you just broke a vase and you’ve got limited time to fix it. Now, you can either get your hands on some proper ceramic sealant and spend hours patching the whole thing together seamlessly - or you can do the job in minutes, with crazy glue. It won’t look as good but it’ll still hold your flowers.’ She’d tied off the bandage around his arm and sliced the ends. ‘In this analogy, your insides are the flowers.’

This was fine for humans, but….

“Your skin isn’t - what is it made of?”

“Polyurethane, mainly.” He zips his overalls - it’s left to the marines to walk around shirtless, or otherwise not covered from neck to feet to forearms. “There are three stages to a repair,” which was really what Hicks was asking, even if the human didn’t realise it. “One, any internal damage or part replacement. Two, seal the skin: stitches, staples, glue, laser or patch. Three, melt and blend the edges so the seam disappears, and recolour if necessary.”

“And you’ve had to skip that third stage?”

“I usually opt out. It’s not essential unless it impairs mobility.”

“So you end up with scars.”

It seems very utilitarian - very  _ robotic _ \- to leave out something that isn’t strictly essential to the repair process. But it leaves him, if anything, looking more human.


	2. Chapter 2

Ferro usually has the last word on technical matters: “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

Company Man clutches his clipboard protectively, seeming put-off only for a moment. “I’m not talking about  _ physical _ malfunction - you’re right, there’s nothing wrong with him in that sense. However -” he re-applies his glasses, “I have here a whole catalogue of… how do I say this…?  _ Idiosyncratic psychology. _ ”

“Exactly,” Ferro says, conveying the idea that she has far, far more important things to do right about now. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“First,” he ignores her, “language. Over and above the vocabulary database these units are programmed with….”

-

_ ‘Ah, we got a problem here’ Drake says, turning around, not wanting to believe it but unable to look away. _

_ Next to him, he very distinctly hears ‘holy fuck’ before the wall of water hits them. _

-

“...a database which should be sufficient for, and applicable to, any occasion, notwithstanding role-specific technical terms.” His finger moves down the clipboard. “Next, aberrant speech patterns and extensive use of wordplay.”

-

_ “It’s ‘cause you’re ugly as fuck,” Frost informs Hudson, patting him on the shoulder. _

_ “Hey, fuck you,” Hudson retorts automatically. “I’m not ugly - am I? Tell him, man.” _

_ “There’s beauty in every living thing, Private.” _

_ “See! Asshole.” _

_ “...Although, yours  _ is _ mostly on the inside.” _

_ - _

“You mean he has a sense of humour.”

“In a sense, yes. One that a personality construct of this type isn’t built to have.”

“So?”

“So… well, that coupled with the non-standard vocalisations, and the  _ habits _ … they, ah, well as a technical expert you’ll know already that - they don’t  _ have  _ habits….”

-

_ Gorman has rarely seen one look so human - leaning on the table, a book propped in one hand and a mug in the other. He’s been warned that these guys are something different, far away from starched uniforms and stiff upper lips, but this brings it home. _

_ He takes a coffee of his own and sits down opposite anyway, because the occasional turn of a page is far better than the silence of his quarters, and none of the others would welcome his company. _

-

“And, ah, risk-taking… not outside of normal parameters, I’ll be honest, but definitely outside of normal circumstances….”

-

_ “Do the thing with the knife!” _

_ “C’mon, Hudson….” _

_ - _

“And the creativity - now, flexible problem-solving is one thing, sometimes mistaken for true creativity - but at their core, they’re purely derivative. At least, that’s what we look for. What they should be.”

-

_ “You could argue, sir, that no piece of art can be said to be truly original. Every creation is a reflection of what came before - even if it’s the direct opposite.” _

_ Apone nods, lighting a cigar. _

_ “That may be true. And I’m not saying it’s not an improvement. But how did you do it?” _

_ “Thank you, sir. Private Ferro gave me a marker, instructed me to use my imagination, and cover our colleagues’ attempts at decoration.” _

_ “Well, I guess you did.” Apone frowns. “Certainly, I ain’t never seen a drawing of a dick turned into a dragon before.” _

-

“And,” Company Man raises a finger, to general indifference, “an attitude towards self-repair and maintenance which…. You understand that synthetic skin can be remade to perfection, sealed and blended in a way which renders evidence of damage and repair  _ completely invisible _ ,” he pinches his finger and thumb to emphasise the words, “and yet that stage of the procedure has been consistently missed out.”

“He has scars.”

“He has scars, ma’am. And he wears a watch - which he doesn’t need, by the way - to hide one of them.”

“Yeah,” Ferro says; if she acted any more bored, she’d have to actually play dead. “Hudson shot him.”

“Excuse me?” He clicks his pen and begins to scribble furiously. “You say this was a deliberate -.”

“Not deliberate. None of us would ever hurt him. Hudson was showing off like an idiot, made a mistake, and there was a ricochet. Took out a wrist bearing. Had to wait a week for a new one.”

“This was never mentioned in the….”

“Have you seen his tattoo?”

Company Man looks on the verge of an aneurysm.


	3. Chapter 3

“C’mon - just one time, man - you can do it!”

“No.”

“C’mon!”

“Hudson!” Apone snaps. “We talked about this - don’t jump on him!”

“Sir,” Hudson acknowledges, and returns his boots to the floor, but can’t resist a retort. “Surely he’s ok with -.”

“That’s not for you to decide,  _ sweetheart _ . He’s always gonna catch you, but 200 pounds landing on your spine all the damn time? It’s not good for anyone!”

“200 pounds!” Dietrich crows, and Hudson mutters something about ‘plus all the gear’.

“Leave him,” Vasquez says. “He’s not meant to spar with anybody.”

“You scared of getting your ass kicked?”

“He won’t kick your ass, idiot. That’s the point.”

\--

“Ok, dude.” Frost steps back, bouncing on his toes, shaking his hands. “Slow that down - show me how I just got my ass killed.”

Drake laughs audibly from the other side of the room, so Frost gives him the finger.

“It’s about momentum. You’re leaning too far forward and I can pull you off-balance.”

“So if I come at you…?” He repeats, moving fast for a human but glacially slow for his opponent. “There, where I’m blocking?”

“That’s it. Don’t push back, just block.”

“Cool. Again.”

He’s never been hurt doing this, though the hands making feinted strikes at him can rip a door off its hinges. Absorbed in the pattern, he almost doesn’t notice Drake creeping up behind with a knife - and when he does, it’s an effort to hide his grin.

Whether it’s that or some other tell, it only takes a split second. Drake goes for the grab - Frost feels a boot on his torso and stumbles away and Drake is suddenly on his back on the floor, disarmed and flopping like a seal.

“Fuck,” Frost says, happily - the kick landed hard enough to push him back without breaking every bone in his chest, which he’s quite relieved about - “now that’s a reaction.”

“Gimme that,” Drake says, flailing to his feet and taking his knife. “You realise he just flipped me over? Like a fuckin’ pillow.”

“I’m sorry, Private. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, and you know it. You coulda threw me across the room, but you didn’t - and I  _ respect _ that.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Yeah, we know.”

\--

"What did I say about fighting with him?  _ What did I say _ ?"

"Not to." Drake doesn't feel that this is the time for witticisms. "Sir."

"And I  _ specifically  _ told Hudson to forget about it, because I thought he was the only one stupid enough to pull such a dumbass stunt. And I regret that I was wrong."

“Yessir,” Drake says. “We’re sorry, sir.”

“And you’re lucky that he can’t hurt you - and even more lucky that I don’t feel inclined.”

“Yessir.”

“With respect sir,” Frost starts.

“Go on, Private.”

“What does  _ he _ think about it?”

Apone nods sagely, and folds his hands behind his back. “I did think you might ask something like that, Private. So I asked him. And you know what he said?”

“What did he say, sir?”

“That - and I am quoting here - it is  _ not _ an authorised activity for a synthetic squad member under the Marine Corps regulations.” He lets that sink in. “However, he also said that as long as you two are careful - very careful - he doesn’t see a problem with it.”

Drake bites back his grin, as does Frost, giving them identical ‘we’re off the hook’ expressions.

“So, consider yourselves off the hook. This time.”

They have the dignity, at least, to wait until he walks away before high-fiving.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: All technical details in this are handwaved out of thin air and/or based loosely on the Colonial Marines Technical Manual, the promo material for 'Prometheus', and the huge messy explosions of (sometimes fatal) techno-gore in every single movie.  
> Comments on synthetic physiology (or anything else) are welcome....


End file.
